


How Absolutely Uncivilized

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Banging where perhaps banging should not be preformed, Enemies with benefits as I like to call it, Hate Sex, I'm officially trash for this ship, Lord have mercy on that desk, M/M, Roasting, Roughness, the usual bitchery of these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: Mr. Norrell's study was never really that same after that.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	How Absolutely Uncivilized

Gilbert Norrell had made a grievous error in leaving his man of business alone with his editor, though he knew it not yet. 

Or, perhaps he was aware and he simply did not care anymore. That seemed somewhat likely, the more Childermass thought about it. Of late his master had been full of complaints of London, of the war, the Government with their impossible and troublesome requests. Humanity in large was not fit for Mr. Norrell's tastes, so it seemed. Perhaps the little man had thought it best finally to leave the whole business behind. 'Ah yes,' Childermass imagined him saying, 'but what of Hanover square? I shan't want to continue paying such irksome bills. Hm...Oh well, I shall simply leave Childermass and Lascelles there to themselves, the wretched place will be mere cinders in an hour.' The thought amused John. 

"What are you smiling at?" snapped Henry Lascelle, who had spent the last few minutes incinerating the wallpaper behind Childermass' head with his cold glare. 

"Nothing of your concern." Replied Childermass with a tone of apathy veering into boredom, which he knew brought no end of offense to the man before him. This desirous effect was achieved. Pale, scowling, Lascelles stood rigid in his 'I am fantasizing most vividly about how your kidneys might function as a centerpiece to my dinner table' stance. 

"...Such impertinence," he heard, forced from between straight pearly teeth. His lips twitched. Would he take his shot and further provoke Henry Lascelles? He thought about it only a moment. 

"It is good for a man to delve into introspection every now and again, I believe. Though, if I may, I would advise not announcing your discoveries out loud next time." The slightest intake of breath, sharp as it was choked, reached the smug man of business' pleased ears. His shot had hit the bullseye. Almost at once Childermass found himself collared by the none too pleased aristocrat. Hot breath warmed his sharp cheekbone as Lascelles pressed nose to nose with him. "Do unhand me," he suggested, voice utterly soaked in condescension. 

"You bastard," seethed Lascelles. Childermass determined not to let his face show any particular emotion. "What gives you the right to order me around? nothing, that is correct, you have no right whatsoever." His lips were thin with repulsion. There was a certain warm, rascally serpent that slumbered away in the darker crevices of Childermass's conscious. "Learn your place," the snake awoke, uncurled, and slithered downwards, constructing a new home in the hollow of his chest and deep within his naval. From under his dark lashes, he dared to look Henry Lascelles dead in the eye. Part of him, the sensible region of his decision-making organ, felt unnerved. On the other hand, the snake slinking around within him, spurning the warm coals in his northernmost regions, was offering some rather sound suggestions concerning what precisely Childermass should do with the man bending over him. This was no time for sensibility.

For all his efforts to frighten the servant into obedience, all Lascelles got in return was an ironic, absolutely acidic smile. There was a pause, then the clash of lips.

'Kiss' was to light, to tender, a word to be within fifty yards of whatever it was that Lascelles and he were doing. The way teeth scraped teeth and tongue battled tongue was similar to fist against flesh, nails against faces, brick against skulls. Lascelles always tore into his lower lip, savoring his victory when at last he tasted blood. Today was no different. In return, Childermass made a scratching post out of his enemies pale torso.

One of these days he wanted to hear Mr. Henry Lascelles moan. With him it was all growls, grumbles, and howls. 'And yet I am the dog, ey?' What it would be to hear such a thing, from such a cold, wicked sort of creature? It would not suit him at all, Childermass knew. Were Lascelles ever to assume emotions even remotely human, God forbid romantic, to even for a moment not be absolutely feral, it would make a sight downright against nature. Still, a man, no matter who, has an ego to stroke and such a thing, wrenching a vulnerable little sigh out of the gossip-monger, would certainly do it for Childermass. 

For now, he received some rumbles of distaste as he forced himself from his chair and backed Lascelles onto his writing desk. Fingers yanked his long, tangled hair, bruises were sucked against his collar bone, and fingers bit into any flesh where they could find anchorage. Childermass slipped his hands down to the breeches of his buggering bane. 

"How absolutely uncivilized, fucking like this in your master's library." Lascelles critiqued with a snobbish wrinkle of his thin, sharp little nose.

"Do, if you please, point out to me any part of this that is civilized." clipped Childermass. 

"Well, if no fraction of it is, that is not my fault." Was the curt reply. Childermass went about undoing the bastards shirt completely. 

"Oh yes, yes, I am the filthy Yorkshire servant, of course. But may I take liberty..." he slid closer, grinding slowly, ruefully, against his horny hostile. Lascelles made a low, raw sound under his breath, "...to beg the question: If I am no more then a stray with fleas, what does that make you?" With new fever he began tearing away whatever barriers still lay between them. 

"Careful, slug, each stitch of my breeches are worth more than your entire existence," was spit into his ears. He took no mind.

It was a blur, after that, a mere swirl of reds, of whites, of fleshly, molten heat pressed against him. Like ink in the rain, both men's thoughts ran together. Every frustration, every enemy became one dark shade slithering over him, one that he could grab at and liberally rearrange the guts of. Blood lazily slipped from the bite mark of previous. He felt the warmth of the pulsing wound. It was like a sickly sweet drug, more addictive than any opioid or alcohol. Nothing mastered either man save their urges, which they did nothing to curb or catch.

Later that evening Mr. Norrell returned home and at once acquired an air of suspicion upon entering his library. 

"And did you accomplish anything whilst I was out. What of that one bookseller, did you acquire anything from him?" the older man asked Childermass, beady blue eyes narrowed.

"I dealt with him, sir," He lied "nothing came of it, however." 

"And where did Mr. Lascelles go? he said he would be here quite sometime before his work was complete, did he not?"

Childermass shrugged. An image of that devil snogging some whore in a back alley, or taking it all out on Drawlight, or boozing away his contempt alone in his study, flitted quickly through his mind. Wisely, he kept them to himself. Norrell huffed.

It was hard to take his master's displeasure seriously, given how he was still wrapped up in his furs, which made him look less like a respectable gentleman of English magic and more like a husky ball of fur that had perched an old fashioned wig upon the top of it.


End file.
